On Dark and Terrible Seas
by Detective Ryoshi
Summary: A story revolving around a truly remarkable woman, The Balalaika, and what happens when she finds herself a hostage one day.


On Dark and Terrible Seas…

By Detective Ryoshi

Author's note: This is another story I'm really looking forward to write, mainly because I really wanted to make something that was completely centered on the Balalaika. I just love this character. She is easily one of my favorites. I plan on making more Balalaika stories, and more Black Lagoon stories for that matter. So here it is, my first Lagoon fic. Also, in order to have the work feel authentic, a lot of the dialogue is in Russian. For those of you who need help understanding, here's a vocab guide.

Dedushka: Grandpa

Privet: Hello

Ushanka: A hat worn by military officials.

Da: Yes

Net: No

Khorosho: Good

Voyenno-Morskoy Flot: Navy

Kalashnikov: An Ak-47, which derives its name from Mikhail Kalishnikov, the man who designed the weapon. This isn't a really a Russian vocab word, but I put this up anyway in case anyone is wondering what weapon is being referenced when this word is used.

Now that we got that out of the way, I hope you enjoy!

"Dedushka! Dedushka!" shouted the little girl, her sandy blonde hair bouncing as she sprinted to the trench-coat clad man. Slowly, he turned around, revealing his aged, wrinkled, yet kind face. "Aah, privet my little lamb. What a joy to see you this fine day, Sophia. Tell me, have you been eating well lately?" the old man asked. "Da! Da!" responded his energetic granddaughter. "And tell me, have you been exercising well lately?" he asked again. "Da! Da!" the same enthusiastic reply emanated. "Khorosho, Khorosho. Now tell me, are you ready to become champion of the women's biathlon?" "Da." Sophia had calmed down, only a little though, and she still wore a wide smile. The old man reached down and patted her head. He chuckled, "You're going to have to wait a while before that. Just a couple more years and you'll be ready to participate. But keep up at the pace you're going and you'll be perfect." Sophia appreciated her grandfathers' kind words. They motivated her to reach her goal. But she wasn't headed to the Olympics however. No, she was called for the greater good of Russia. And she answered that sweet, siren call.

Over the hot sands of Afghanistan, she and her men smelled the fresh scent of shrapnel and tasted delicious blood, every night. But then, it all ended. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. The USSR died from the inside, it had the heart of a system that could simply not work in the modern era, and that heart failed. The wall fell. Democracy was embraced. That little girls' grandfather, a once proud military head that commanded legions of pure Soviet warriors, had been condemned by an alien and frightening country he had once served. Everything had changed. So, poor little Sophia, burned my Muslim flames, frozen my capitalist ice, had nowhere to go. She was but a grey war dog. The blood on her maw had lost its' red hue and its' scent had faded away. She could no longer care for her children, whose optimism and hope had been lost ever since the country they had sacrificed for ceased to exist. But she still wouldn't die. She refused to leave the mortal world until she and her men died a soldier's death. Not an honorable death. Not a beautiful death. Just a soldier's death. She had taken up a name, a title that would hide her identity and shield her. It was a nickname she had received in Afghanistan, "Balalaika." She wore the name like armor. So, the Balalaika had gone with her men off to Roanapur, the city where grown men with power transform into small children, where the stench of sin was so strong but its' inhabitants could only smell roses. There they had become a crime syndicate, titled "Hotel Moscow." There they had lived with great prosperity. The Kalashnikov was their paint brush, and the city would look upon their art, their crimson paint brushed furiously on to the canvas that was its' streets. And I will continue, cried the Balalaika, the Slavic war-goddess of Roanapur, in her thoughts. I will continue, as long as I can get out of here first.

The Balalaika had regained consciousness only about three minutes ago. Her hands, mouth and feet were bound with tough rope. Her beautiful red dress was stained with blood originating from her head and nose. "How did I get here?" she thought. "Whoever did this to me must be very strong. They must have really killed a lot of Hotel Moscow in order to get me kidnapped like this." She looked around to find that she was in the hull of a light, metal ship. She heard the sound of boots clanking on the ground. The Balalaika grew excited. "Now's my time!" she thought eagerly. She found a soldier wielding a shotgun coming near her. She gazed at his right soldier. She found a Russian flag emblem on it. A _modern_ Russian flag. "Interesting…" she thought. The man slowly pumped his shotgun and pointed it at the women. He looked away, uncomfortable, as he pointed the arm directly at her face. "So he wants to play…" thought Balalaika, a look of confidence regained in her eyes. The soldiers' fingers began to quiver. Suddenly, Balalaika knocked the shotgun out of his hands with her head. The man recoiled in fear. Astonished, he grabbed a combat axe from the holster it was in on his hip. However, before he could even get the axe in his hands, the Balalaika was wielding the dropped shotgun. By balancing it on the floor, she managed to get bound hands on the trigger. The soldier then sorrowfully remembered, he had already pumped the shotgun. The top half of the mans' head disappeared in a thunderous, moist eruption. The Balalaika glanced at the combat axe that was in his freshly-dead hands. "Khoroso, khoroso…" she thought. She carefully used the axe to free herself from her restraints.

The Balalaika calmly walked out of the ships' hull and on to the ships' deck. She found a large group of Russian soldiers watching her comrade Boris, on facetime with a large television. "Privet, boys." The Balalaika calmly said as she pointed her shotgun, pumped it, and destroyed a PFCs' face. All the other soldiers gotten their weapons, high power assault rifles ready. The woman kept pumping and firing her gun, though no bullets flew at her. More and more PFCs fell, sloppy dead. "Net! Net! Stop!" exclaimed a blonde-haired young man in an officer's coat and ushanka. "Privet… listen…" he began talking to the Balalaika, "I…I… I'm the leader of this mission, Colonel Arkady Gutin, and I-I was just discussing your ransom…" Without flinching, the Balalaika turned her shotgun towards the Colonel. "Net! Stop! L-listen… I-""Why did you send one of your men to kill me?" she asked sternly. "Because well… we were talking to your colleagues… as you can see on the TV screen…" Boris looked firmly at Balalaika. "…and well… they weren't willing to pay the ransom…" "Hmmm… I see…" said the woman. "Now, how did you kidnap me? And why?" Boris got in the conversation. "They used Seren gas on our headquarters sir. We suffered sixteen casualties, and everyone there was knocked unconscious." "I see… clever boy…" The Balalaika remarked. Arkady swallowed. "Now… for the second part of the question…" "Well… I found out about Hotel Moscow on the internet and well… I thought it would make my superiors proud if I took you as a hostage…" he said shyly. "Did you have permission from your authorities?" questioned Balalaika. "Well… no, but… I thought they would be proud… I mean, it would be an act of justice…" The Balalaika roared with laughter. That word. It came up again. To her it was the funniest word in the English language. It was also _just_ a word. An overrated word. A word loved and overused by people who don't even really know the meaning. She just couldn't stop laughing. "Y-you're telling m-me that you went off on your own, disobey your superiors, and kidnapped me in the name of your 'justice'? That's hilarious! I haven't laughed like this in ages." Boris turned to her, his grim expression unchanging. "Sir, the targets are in sight. Authority to fire at will?" "Da. Authority granted," the Balalaika responded. "Wait, what?" cried an astonished Colonel Gutin. "Damnit! Kapitan! We need to kill this bitch now!" yelled one of Gutins' soldiers. But it was too late. Swiftly, the Black Lagoon Trading Company boat zoomed near the Russian ship. The Balalaika, who had calmed down, but was still chuckling quietly, jumped on as the ship came near the boat and drove away. Gutin was devastated in his confusion. Some soldiers began firing shots, though none of them hit the Lagoon boat. Gutin didn't do anything. He just sat on the floor, with a dead look in his eye. Balalaika found Revy, the Lagoon Company's New Yorker gunslinger, wielding an RPG as the boat drove past the Russian ship. She fired, and the Russian ship, now a tiny little canoe in the horizon, erupted in black smoke with a hollow "boom." The Slavic war-goddess had won again, with hot blood on her lips.

The Balalaika found Boris on the boat, as well as a handful of Hotel Moscow agents. "So, I see that you did not pay my ransom, and instead opted for a risky rescue…" she began. "Da. That is correct." Boris answered. The Balalaika smiled and patted Boris's shoulder. "Good… just how I taught you. Never surrender. Especially not to Russkiy Voyenno-Morskoy Flot punks like them." She saluted. Boris saluted back. The Balalaika walked towards the front of the ship, the bright sun shining off of her flowing blonde hair, chuckling to herself.

THE END 


End file.
